And Isn't It Ironic?
by XB16B2
Summary: And it's the moment we've all been waiting for...Harry and Voldy finally have it out! But in the end, does the prophecy fulfill itself, or can there be a bit of a twist? Irony is, after all, the best policy...right?


"So, the boy who lived. It comes down to this, as I always knew it would," Voldemort hissed, breathing deeply through slitted nostrils. He was horrendous to observe, pale and snakelike. The epitome of evil.

Harry Potter lay sprawled on the ground before him, panting, his body aching from the last Unforgivable Voldemort had put him through. His wand lay a few feet from him, broken into splinters. The messy black hair he had inherited from his father was singed from a few barely avoided curses, his Evans-green eyes half closed from exhaustion, from weariness, from the weight of carrying the future of the world on his metaphorical shoulders. The prophecy was known and the meaning was clear, at least in his mind. One of them had to die. It could not be him.

The setting was ironic for such a confrontation. The sun shone, almost completely unimpeded by the usual clouds, onto the green meadow where the two figures stood, alone. The Order should have been with Harry, making sure there were no others to interfere with what they knew to be his destiny. However, Voldemort had caught him with an old trick—a Portkey. The same way he had been tricked in his fourth year of school. At eighteen, Harry Potter knew that he should have known better.

He hadn't. The price for that was a duel to the death with the Dark Lord, the most powerful dark wizard for ages. Lord Voldemort.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The man Harry received his scar, his destiny, his fame, and a good deal of his abilities from. The man who had killed his father, his mother, his godfather, his friends, his rivals, and a few of his enemies. The man who had ripped Hogwarts from the inside out. The man who had shaped his life.

His surrogate father, in a way.

"Beg, Potter," the sibilant voice continued, weaving its persuasive way through Harry's pain-clouded thoughts. "Beg, and I will show mercy."

The Dark Lord had tried this before, of course. Several times. In each of their past encounters, that Harry could remember. Quite a few times in the past twenty minutes. Voldemort undoubtedly took sadistic pleasure in Harry's refusal.

The boy refused nonetheless, resisting the Imperius curses to the best of his ability.

"No," Harry rasped. He would do honour to the fallen. He would complete the prophecy—he _would_ defeat the man before him. Mustering strength from some unknown well, he kicked out at the other wizard. Voldemort, surprised that his opponent had the audacity to do such a thing, stepped back coolly…and tripped over a rock. The Dark Lord fell backwards, shocked, and dropped his wand.

Harry took his chance and lunged to his knees, muscles protesting, head spinning, barely holding onto the consciousness he needed to grab at the wand. As soon as he got hold of the implement—brother to his broken wand, method of the destruction of so many lives—he calmly aimed at his fallen foe. It seemed as though he had all the time in the world. Everything moved slowly. Harry smiled slightly. "Arvada Kedavra," he whispered, pointing the wand directly at Voldemort's heart.

The dark wizard was still laughing when a beam of green light hit him, killing him on impact. Voldemort had been sure that his Horcruxes were protected. He had been unaware of the two Harry found, and the evidence of destruction of the others. Voldemort died as he had lived, unaware of danger and confident in his utter superiority.

Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, took a moment to clear his head. His entire body was aching, his head felt as though it were stuffed with cotton, his wand was broken…but Voldemort was dead.

His job was over.

He could reclaim his life.

The wizard staggered to his feet, nearly collapsing, but catching himself. He had to get back to London—to the Ministry. Apparating was out of the question; he had never learned. So the eighteen year old began a belaboured walk in the direction that he was facing. It was too much difficulty to turn around. He would reach something eventually.

Of course, he had no idea how soon 'eventually' would be. Still in a semi-conscious state, Harry was surprised to feel something that was not quite dirt under his feet. Blinking blearily and looking down, his vision swimming, he was astonished to see pavement.

Looking up, he was even more surprised to see the Muggle tour bus approximately six inches from his noses.

He didn't even feel the impact.

"_Oh, shit, Bert, come 'ere!"_

"_What now?"_

"_I've gone and 'it some kid!"_

"_No!"_

"_Yeah! Bert, call some'un!"_

"_Crikey, Charlie, where'd 'e come from"_

"_Dunno, 'e was just _there_!"_

"_But why..."_

**A/N: So yeah, there's my bit. Reviews are appreciated (hintconstructivecriticismhint) Ah, the things that appear in book club meetings….**


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